Ghost Tour (ch.1)

September 4, 1998

Clinton was a canal town back when donkeys still pulled the barges. When the railroad came through, the town boomed-and-busted for over a hundred years. Then, when the last of the post-war industries finally shuttered in the late eighties, everything went dark.

A small city in long decline left to its own devices, Clinton’s ghosts now outnumbered the living. Only the accident of affordable rents provided a dimly lit welcome mat for random artistic types, who settled invisibly among remnants of the working class.

Reid and Kristina’s brick two-bedroom rental was three blocks from the old cement plant. Built decades before the automobile, it might’ve been home to a family of twelve in its day. Now it was just about the right size for Reid and Kristina and their various projects. Cheap and plentiful local vintage furnished the place with retro style.

About a year into their life there, just when they were beginning to feel settled, a faint creaking sound started emanating from the basement on occasion.

Reid was about to make a phone call when he heard it again. It didn’t sound like the hot water heater, but that’s what he told himself it was. Not something he was going to deal with at the moment.

In the hallway, the base unit of their cordless phone rested atop a pile of unpaid bills on a 1950s phone table. Of seven numbers on speed dial, Reid hit Murphy’s by mistake, then didn’t recognize Murphy’s voice at first when he answered.

“I can’t make it to practice tonight,” Reid said.

“The fuck are you telling me for?”

“Oh, Murph, sorry man, I thought I was calling Jordan.”

“Just fuck off already.”

Click.

I do need to reprogram this thing, Reid thought. Refocus. He very purposefully pressed Jordan’s number this time.

“I just called Murphy by mistake,” Reid told him.

“Did you ask him for the keys to the practice space?”

“I called him by mistake.”

“We need to get those keys back.”

“You ask him.”

Jordan tried to picture himself asking a still-infuriated Murphy for the keys.

“We should just change the lock,” he said.

Reid looked down at the small phone table, shuffled the bills for no particular reason.

“Look,” he said, “I can’t make practice tonight.”

Jordan had his own desk full of papers staring up at him. A press schedule, an addendum to their record contract, proofs for publicity photos. The clock was ticking.

“I thought she got some girl to help.”

“She did, but she flaked.”

“Tour’s in two weeks.”

“It’s just tonight, she’ll find someone.”

This was a done deal, Jordan knew it. Once the tour bus pulled away all bets were off, but for the next two weeks, any tug-of-war between band and girlfriend was likely to favor the girlfriend. Still, on the whole, with Kristina in the picture, Reid was keeping his shit together. Jordan wasn’t going to pull too hard.

“Cheese twists,” Jordan stated, something from Kristina’s catering repertoire he liked. He expected compensation for the last-minute schedule change.

“If there’re any left.”

“The puffed ones.”

“I’ll ask her.”

“Call Liz and Corey. If it’s cool with them, we’ll do tomorrow night.”

“Thanks, Jord,” Reid said.

“Cheese twists,” Jordan repeated.

Reid knew Liz’s number by heart, he left a message on her machine. He reached for the notebook beneath the bills on the phone table. Corey wasn’t on speed dial yet so he needed to look up his number. Hopefully he’d catch their new drummer before he drove up from Brooklyn.

# # #

“Stay outta there,” Kristina said when she saw Reid poking around the extra fridge in their dining room dedicated for catering jobs.

“Jordan wants cheese twists.”

“This isn’t a Super Bowl party, the guy’s a film producer,” Kristina said. “Come on, get ready.”

Reid went up to their bedroom to find a white shirt. The black jeans he was already wearing would suffice. If Kristina didn’t like his tousled hair she could fix it herself.

Together, they began shuttling pre-assembled trays of appetizers from the forbidden fridge to Kristina’s hatchback. She’d devised a little shelf system to stack the trays without them all smushing into each other.

On their last trip back into the house, they both heard it.

“There it is again,” Kristina said.

“I think it’s the hot water heater.”

“Doesn’t sound like a hot water heater.”

There was a light breeze tonight. The sound always seemed to kick up with the wind.

“I’ll check it tomorrow,” Reid said.

They were this close to running late. The party was twenty minutes south of town, out in the country, where a weekender house identical to theirs would be worth ten times as much.

The house they were going to tonight had architectural ambitions. A new construction, neither old nor quaint, it rested uneasily on the surrounding acreage. The land had been an apple orchard for three centuries. The craggy trees were gone but not their hold on the soil, both in spirit and toxicity, but what’s a little arsenic when you only drink bottled water.

When they pulled up, the wife of the producer was placing little tea lights in silver paper bags, lining the walkway, trying to keep them lit in the light breeze.

“You can just take all that straight into the kitchen,” she said, not entirely unfriendly, but she didn’t say hello first. Reid imagined she’d eat brains from a human skull as a delicacy if it suited her.

The kitchen was pretty spectacular. Open plan, big work island in the middle. Tile, stainless everywhere. The cooking range called to Kristina. She ran an envious finger along its pristine cast-iron grills.

“Wolf stove and she never even uses it.”

“We’ll use it,” Reid said.

“Sort of.”

For Kristina, it would be like having a ’64 Telecaster and only getting to play the low E string. She’d assembled the platters back at their place, the Wolf’s only job tonight was giant toaster oven.

“Counter?” Reid asked. He was still holding a tray of sliced baguette with smoked trout spread.

“Wherever.”

They worked efficiently together. Kristina had a natural gift. Reid not so much, but he’d worked enough restaurants to retain some muscle memory. Plus this wasn’t the first time he’d pinch-hit at a catering gig.

After about an hour, guests started trickling in.

“Can I trust you with the buffet table?” Kristina said.

“I can pour the wine,” Reid said.

Kristina looked at him with eyes that said, We both know why you can’t pour the wine, but she also knew if someone started asking Reid if the brie was triple creme they were done for.

“We’ll switch if you need to,” she said, stationing herself by the edibles.

Reid slipped behind the portable bar, where a dozen long-stemmed wine glasses were arrayed like a fishbowl toss at a county fair. He proceed to pour each half-full, cabernet on the left, pinot grigio on the right.

The bouquet, as it were, didn’t reach his nose from this distance, so he remained detached. Until his first taker approached the bar, a woman in a striped cocktail dress, flying solo.

“What year’s the pinot?” she asked.

“Looks like 95,” Reid said, angling the bottle so they could examine it together.

She lifted a glass from the bar. When she gave it a swirl and held it up to her nose, she telegraphed the sensation. Reid licked his lips unconsciously. When she took that first sip, he could almost taste it.

“Nice,” she said.

“Glad you like it,” he said, stock response.

She took her pinot with her, Reid filled another glass. But the action was no longer abstract. The wine was now singing to him.

He looked over at Kristina in her crisp white shirt, her hair pulled back, engaging in foodie talk with a guest. Her presence always had a grounding effect on him, and he loved seeing her like this, in her element. Her poise, her confidence. She wasn’t here to serve these people, she was here to take this party to the next level.

“How we doing here?”

It was Film Producer Guy whose house it was, standing in front of the bar. He had that Team Leader affectation in his voice.

“Aces,” Reid said, thumbs up for good measure.

“Good to hear,” said Producer Guy. “I’m John, by the way, if you need anything.”

“I’m Reid, thanks.”

John hoisted a cabernet and rejoined the room without further smalltalk. Fine with Reid. He didn’t need anyone at this party to know his band had recently signed to a major label. He was here to support Kristina, plain and simple. Play the part of anonymous waiter. The starched apron helped.

Still, there was something suspect about this John guy. Reid kept his eye on him while he worked the room. He saw him pat his Versace sport coat like he was making sure something was still in there. More than once Reid saw him slip something from an inside pocket into a grateful guest’s hand.

Not unrelated, the energy level in the room was most definitely starting to tweak. Faces lighting up one at a time, sharing recognition with other freshly lit-up faces.

The hostess, dismissive upon their arrival, returned to the bar with newfound attentiveness. Her hand grazed Reid’s as he refilled her glass.

“You can take a break sometimes, Reid,” she said, leaning in, wine on her breath, pupils dilated. She must’ve pried his name from either her husband or Kristina. “I’m Isabella.”

Reid smiled politely, then glanced to Kristina, who was already swooping in for the rescue.

“Pull the pears out,” she instructed him professionally, swapping places with him behind the bar. “Pop the last eggplant in for ten minutes.”

If the hostess noticed the switch in personnel, it didn’t seem to make any difference to her. She fixed her eyes on Kristina’s lithe body just as quickly.

With a commercial-grade kitchen towel as an oven mitt, Reid reached into the oven for the roasted pears as instructed. Not thinking to pull the rack out first, his forearm touched the roof of the oven just briefly, but it scorched like hell.

Not making a big deal of it, he ducked to the Sub-Zero for ice which he held directly on his arm for a minute. His rookie mistake left a slight mark, but didn’t look like it would blister.

Returning to the oven, he more cautiously slid the tray of eggplant inside. He plated the pears, arranged them with the other offerings on the buffet table, then popped a mini brie in his mouth when no one was looking.

So it continued, until the party’s last sine wave dropped beneath the horizon line and stayed there, all but the last few oblivious guests having flittered off into the night.

Kristina gave the nod, Reid started gathering empty trays to shuttle to the hatchback. She noticed the small burn on his arm.

“You okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugged and headed outside.

On his way back in, he stopped outside the open door of the home office, where he caught sight of John handing Kristina a wad of bills. She had the sense to count them.

He saw John hand her something else too, from his inside pocket. She took it. Reid wasn’t entirely sure he saw the door inching closed, but he moved in just the same.

“We good?” he asked them both for two different reasons.

He was back to being Reid now, the one who’d done this dance in backrooms of more beer-drenched nightclubs than he could remember. Also back to being Reid the protective boyfriend.

“We’re good,” Kristina said.

John straightened up slightly as if momentarily caught doing something.

“You didn’t tell me you were in X-13,” he said to Reid.

Reid and Kristina shared a quick glance that told him she’d dropped his band’s name making small talk in the process of getting paid.

“This is Kristina’s night, not mine,” Reid said.

“I think I saw you guys open for Jetco at Irving Plaza a couple years back.”

Irving Plaza held over a thousand people, Reid figured it was possible.

“Yeah, that was a good night.”

“You know,” John said, seeming to size up the young catering couple from a new angle, “you guys don’t need to rush off.”

John looked as zooted as his wife at this point. He started reaching into his inside jacket pocket again.

“Thanks anyway,” Kristina said politely, “we have plans.”

She hustled Reid out the door.

# # #

In the dark car afterwards, they headed back toward Clinton in the otherworldly green glow of the dashboard.

“Didn’t want to stick around and swing with John and Isabelle?” Reid asked.

“Maybe some other time.”

“How’d you get that job, anyway?”

“Marsha hooked me up.”

“Marsha with the Hollywood hay fever?”

“Yep.”

“That makes sense.”

Reid adjusted the rearview, headlights behind them just close enough to make him squint on the straightaways.

“So, how’d that go?” she asked. “The wine and whatnot.”

“Fine.”

“You know, I’m worried about you out on tour, surrounded by all that.”

“You just wanna keep me around as cheap labor.”

“There’s that,” she said, as if.

She looked over at his forearm again. Even in the dim light she could see the burn mark that he wouldn’t have told her about if she hadn’t asked.

“But I do worry about you out there,” she said.

“I worry about you too,” he said. “In the house alone, I mean.”

She’d been pretending not to think about that, but he’d gone and given voice to it. So there it was.

“Last time you went on tour I was still living at my sister’s in Burlington,” she said. “Clinton kind of creeps me out.”

“You wanna go stay with her? It’d make sense.”

“I can’t leave now, I got three catering jobs lined up while you’re away.”

It was a small conundrum that would not go away for the moment. Living in a marginal neighborhood in Clinton was not either of their first choice, but the current living situation afforded them both the opportunity to pursue their own dreams. The subject had been discussed before.

Reid circled back to the previous topic.

“What kind of producer is that guy, anyway?”

“Independent films, something like that.”

“He give you coke?”

Kristina took an extra beat to respond.

“I didn’t look to see what it was.”

“Why’d you take it?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t want to insult him.”

A singular unasked question hung in the air as they drove the rest of the way back to their creaking house in Clinton:

What was Kristina planning to do with it?

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